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Dreams

Sometimes Yor hears Loid come home late, after everyone has gone to bed. As she listens to his whisper-light steps down the hall, she thinks, fondly, What dedication to his work. What a psychiatrist.

Sometimes Loid hears Yor come home late, long past midnight. As he listens to her cat-like passage past his room, he thinks, Such diligence, such tirelessness. What a civil servant.

Anya, fast asleep, hears nothing, ever. But sometimes her dreams are brushed by the passing memory of a gun or the recollection of a knife or a feeling vaguely like a warm hand, outstretched, patiently hopeful.

Snowfall

When Loid comes home from his conference, he brings Anya a souvenir.

(There was no conference. Loid never left the airport. After the dead drop, he found himself in the airport gift shop. He thought, A real father would bring back a gift from his trip .)

“What is it?”

“It’s a snow globe. See, give it a shake. See?”

“Oh.”

They both peer at the plastic dome. White particles swirl around the minuscule towers of a city that neither of them has ever seen.

Within that city , Anya thinks, there are tiny houses full of families watching the snow fall.

Measuring

"Anya is helping!"

"Be careful with that spoon."

"Anya is helping!"

"We have to measure the flour first, Anya."

"Anya is helping!"

"Wait, did you use baking powder or baking soda?"

The cookies, when they finally emerge from the oven, are crumpled lumps.

Yor takes a cautious nibble. The cookie is rock-hard and salty.

"What do you think, Mama?"

Behind Anya, Loid returns Yor's glance with a dead-eyed stare.

"Mmmm!" Yor says, beaming down at Anya. "So good!"

Anya writhes ecstatically. "Anya helped! Now you have one, Papa!"

Loid sighs like a man walking to the guillotine. "Thank you, Anya."

Sink

When Yor unlocks the front door, she sees her sleeve of blood. Her target must have nicked her shoulder. She had not noticed before.

Fortunately, the apartment is empty.

She stains the bathroom sink pink as she cleans and bandages the wound. In the mirror, her eyes are hard.

There is a cup on the edge of the bathroom sink. Three toothbrushes huddle there.

She wipes down the sink two or three times, again and again.

An hour later, when Loid and Anya triumphantly return from the park, Yor is reading a magazine in the living room, her hands clean.

Peeling

Loid peels potatoes as he does everything: carefully, quickly, perfectly.

“Can I help?” Yor asks.

She already knows the answer, and she is not offended when he says, “No, that’s not necessary.”

She leans against the countertop. She admires the controlled motion of his wrist, his thumb’s position, his elbow’s easy swing.

Spirals of potato skin hit the sink.  "Thank you,“ he says suddenly.

"For what?”

“For keeping our knives sharp. I can tell.”

She reddens. “A dull edge is dangerous.”

“This one is sharp as a razor.”

“It’s a good knife,” she says.

“Thanks to you,” he says, undeterred.

Pane

Yor washes the windows, which means she sprays vinegar on glass and rubs it clear with last week’s newspaper.

Anya helps, which means she balls up a sheet of newsprint and haphazardly scrubs the lowest window. Then she becomes distracted by the glimpsed fashion models and lies on the floor to examine them.

“They are so beautiful.”

“Yes,” Yor says absently, polishing away gray streaks.

“I like this one. She looks like you, Mama.” 

When Loid comes home for lunch, he finds both Yor and Anya cutting out paper dolls from last week’s newspaper in a room bright with sunlight.

Bruises

Loid returns with a purpling bruise over one eye.

“It’s nothing,” he says tiredly as Anya crawls into his lap. “One of my patients became overexcited. It was an accident.”

It’s nothing, he thinks. I should have made sure the man was dead before I opened the vault. I was sloppy.

Against his chest, Anya shudders. “I don’t like it when my papa is in pain.”

He rests a comforting hand against the top of her head. “It looks worse than it is.”

Sloppy. The man lying in the vault, his throat cut, blood everywhere. Sloppy, Twilight.

Anya shudders again.

Lids

The lid on the olive jar will not budge, no matter how Loid strains.

“Maybe I can try?”

Loid nearly drops the jar in surprise. Yor had been standing so quietly behind him that he had not noticed her. 

He laughs weakly as he turns. “Sure.”

She smiles as she takes the jar. In one easy motion, she twists the lid open with an audible pop .

“You’re very strong,” he says, a little ironically, as she hands back the jar. 

“Yes,” she says, without irony. 

“Here, an olive for your troubles. And a toothpick.” 

“You’re very fancy,” she says. 

“Yes.” 

Veins

Anya looks up from her comic book. 

"Mama, what is a jugular?"

"Hmm? It's a vein in your neck.” Yor leans forward. "Here. This is your jugular. It brings the old blood from your head back to your heart." 

"Oh," Anya says. "I thought it was some kind of cat. Does everyone have a jugular?" 

Yor moves her finger to rest against Anya's carotid artery. The girl’s pulse is steady. 

"Everyone who lives, Anya." 

Anya's eyes go unfocused for a moment. Yor feels her pulse knock harder. 

“You know a lot about hearts, Mama.”

“Me? No. Just a little, sweetie.”

Teeth

They let Anya stay up late as a treat to watch her Bondman special on TV. 

She falls asleep, a warm weight against Loid's side, by the time Bondman is being slowly lowered into the piranha-infested pool. 

"Should we put her to bed?" he whispers to Yor beside him. 

Yor murmurs back something unintelligible. Her head is resting against the back of the sofa. Her eyes are closed. 

The piranhas eagerly circle in the waters below Bondman. 

"Just a little longer, then," Loid says to himself. "A little longer, and then we'll call it a night." 

The piranhas wait hungrily. 

Mimesis

Anya brings home a drawing from school. 

"This is our family! Here's Papa and Mama and Anya!" 

"Awww," Yor says. "What's this red stuff at the bottom?" 

"Um. Flowers." 

Loid, drying his hands on a dishcloth, looks over Yor's shoulder. "What are those things in Mama's hands?" 

"Knitting needles," Anya says cagily. 

"Is that another person lying under Papa's feet?" 

"More flowers!" 

Yor and Loid exchange a glance. 

I can see why she's failing art class.

I wonder if knitting needles would be sharp enough?

"To the refrigerator!" 

"I'll get a magnet!" 

In Anya’s drawing, three stick figures huddle together.